The base was loud that night, filled with the kind of laughter only men at war could make when they were desperate to forget what waited for them in the skies. Cigarette smoke curled lazily above the card table, mixing with the sharp smell of whiskey and sweat-soaked uniforms. The boys had gathered around for poker, voices rising and falling, teasing and bluffing.

Buck sat with them, but not really with them. His long fingers toyed with the edge of his cards, his eyes flicking now and then toward the pile of chips, yet his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t drink. He didn’t joke much either. The others called him steady, quiet, reliable. Some teased that he was an old man trapped in a young man’s skin. Buck never minded. He was built for stillness, for carrying weight no one else wanted to carry.

Across the room, she was bent over a stack of reports, her jacket half unbuttoned, cap tossed aside. The only woman aviator among them, and ranked higher than all except Buck himself. She had fought hard for her place, and the men knew better than to underestimate her. Still, the stares came sometimes—curious, doubtful, admiring. Buck never stared. At least, not when anyone could notice.

She felt his presence long before she lifted her head. The weight of his gaze was different from the others. Not sharp, not dismissive, not curious. It was steady, the same way he flew, the same way he spoke. For reasons she didn’t want to name, she looked forward to it.

The first time she had seen him was weeks earlier, when she arrived at the base. He had been standing just off the runway, cap low over his brow, shoulders squared. He had saluted crisply, his expression unreadable. She had thought him cold then, another officer unwilling to bend. But later, she learned he wasn’t cold. Just quiet. He carried things inside, like a trunk locked tight.

The poker game broke into shouts—someone had won a hand. She smiled faintly, then forced her eyes back to the reports. Still, her mind wandered. She had heard whispers about Buck’s girl back home. How she had stopped writing, how the war had stretched too long for promises to hold. The story had reached her in fragments, carried by careless voices. Buck never confirmed it. But in the lines of his face, in the way he sometimes stared at nothing, she found her answer.

Later, when the room thinned, when laughter turned into yawns, she stepped outside. The night air was sharp, the English countryside damp and cold. She tilted her head back, watching the stars. Engines rumbled faintly somewhere distant, reminding her this peace was temporary.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

His voice came low behind her. She didn’t jump—he had a way of appearing without noise.

“Too many numbers,” she said softly, folding her arms. “And you?”

“Too much noise.”

They stood there, silence settling comfortably between them. She glanced at him. His profile was carved by moonlight, sharp and still. A man who didn’t drink, didn’t dance, didn’t chase distractions. But he was here, beside her. That said enough.

“Sometimes I think,” she whispered, “we’re holding our breath every day, waiting to see who doesn’t come back.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and the weight in his eyes nearly broke her. “You’re right,” he said. “But then… sometimes I think we just have to breathe anyway.”

Her throat tightened. She had carried herself alone for so long, shoulders squared, voice firm, hiding every doubt. But in that moment, with him, she felt seen. And she saw him too—not the Major, not the aviator, but the man who had lost something back home, and still refused to fall apart.

The cold nipped at her skin, but warmth spread inside her. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of romance that came in grand gestures or loud declarations. Maybe it was quieter, built in glances across smoky rooms, in words spoken under moonlight, in the steady comfort of someone who simply stayed.

And for the first time since she arrived, she let herself hope that, even in the middle of war, there could still be something worth waiting for.